


Despondent

by yaboyj



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Brain Damage, Gen, M/M, Memory Loss, Reanimation, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 02:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15354738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaboyj/pseuds/yaboyj
Summary: There was a scream. Where was it coming from? Who was screaming? He listened closer as he tried to make out through all the noises what it was saying.As it faded out, he recognized it. His own voice, screaming one word.Oswald.





	1. Chapter 1

Cold, dark, absent. Was that what it felt like after death? Was it lonely, or did he feel anything at all. Was he just gone, or was he still there. He couldn't be sure. He searched for  answers for what could've been an eternity, or an hour. There was no way to tell.

The one thing he knew, was that he was alone.

Then came the pain, the bright light and the sharp piercing pain. He wished it would stop, he begged for it to cease but he had no voice. He had no mouth, no body, he felt only pain.

He tried to move, but he couldn't. He tried to cry, and it was helpless. He was alone. No one could save him from this bright fucking light. The excruciating pain dug through him without end.

Then, it stopped. He screamed.

A drowned out sound came through the light. It was blurry, and fading. He reached for it with all his power, his soul.

It faded in, and his ears rang with it.

There was a scream. Where was it coming from? Who was screaming? He listened closer as he tried to make out through all the noises what it was saying.

As it faded out, he recognized it. His own voice, screaming one word.

Oswald.

 

* * *

 

Surrounded by chipped white walls, his eyes bulged from his head as he lay strapped down. The metallic table beneath him peppered goose bumps along his skin. He shivered at the feeling of his bare skin against the cool surface, and weaking struggled against his restraints.

Just as he was about to give up, he heard a slam across the room. He turned his head weakly to both sides but he couldn't determine where in the room it had come from.

With it came the clack of dress shoes against checkered tile, growing closer to him with every step.

His breath sped up unconsciously, the rise and fall of his sunken chest matching the tune of the heart monitor beside him.

The person beside him hits a few buttons on the monitor, before scribbling something down. They clear their throat before tapping on a microphone and beginning to speak.

"Subject E. Nygma, entry 154. It's been four days since the patient regained consciousness. He has showed no signs of progression in memory. No recollection of previous life, location, or name."

The doctor stepped around the table, staring into his open eyes, face obscurred by a white medical mask.

"Shows a lack of motor control and strength, still unable to get off of the table despite being unrestrained."

He struggled inwardly again in confusion, still unable to move but unsure why. Why couldn't he move? What was wrong with his body?

"Recieved orders from up top to excellerate the healing process, will be followed with electrical shock treatment to stimulate the muscles at an extreme rate."

He began to panic, his breathing speeding up considerably, but he still was motionless.

"Proceeding with treatment now."

He let out a scream, but his voice was silent. The searing pain returned, and his eyes began to white out again. He could do nothing, he was completely helpless.

The pain did not stop.

 


	2. 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from the higher ups.

At first, he wouldn't remember a thing. He would wake up with a mild buzzing at the back of his mind, the soft aftertaste of his treatment. But as the sessions continued, he began to retain it.

He would get flashes of it, horrible, painful flashes. And then sometimes, he would get flashes of other things. Things he couldn't recall, things he couldn't understand.

A beautiful woman, with warm skin and dark black hair. He felt admiration from the memory, but he could also feel something else. Something deeper. Insecurity? Guilt? He couldn't be sure. Everything was so fuzzy. He could still barely speak much less make sense of the images pouring into his brain.

He saw other things. Blood gushing from him, a knife in his hands. A small man with soft raven hair and a long bent nose. He couldn't recall any other memories but one, this man was Oswald.

Who Oswald was could not be grasped by him. But he brought unending, spiralling emotion in his mind. He couldn't even remember his own name, but he could remember this man.

This soft, caring man.

He closed his eyes tight shut in frustration.

Who was he? The unreachable answer taunted him at every moment of consciousness. Yet, it's mystery was the one distraction from his daily torture by unknown doctors shooting him full of electricity. Sometimes, he could even forget the pain if he focused on that man.

Oswald Cobblepot.

He tumbled the name around his mind, the syllables dancing over his tongue as he began to regain some resemblance of speech. If he could, he would have twisted his fingers as he pondered the name.

He wondered why he was so determined to recover his knowledge of this man. Was it his appearance, his allure? For some reason at that thought, a knot tied in his stomach, and he decided that it didn't matter why. He just needed to know who Oswald was. He needed Oswald, if only to find any tie to his lost former self.

As another doctor entered, he braced for a shock of current, but it did not come. Instead he was hefted off of the table onto his feet.

Caught off guard and still considerably weak, he crumbled to the floor. The doctor wrote down notes, before swiftly exiting the room, leaving him abandoned on the cold tile, naked and shivering. He tried to summon any of his energy, he struggled and failed to push himself off the ground, winding himself.

As his breathe heaved from his chest, he braced his shaking hands to the reflective surface of the tile. His eyes shut, blinking away tears of exhaustion.

He was never going to get out of here. He was too weak, he could barely breathe on his own, how would he ever discover what had happened to him.

He needed help. He needed someone to help him.

He begged in his mind for anyone, a doctor, a patient, for Oswald. No one came. No one was coming.

He was alone.

His fingertips dug into the hard surface, cracking his nails as his palms shook in cold sweat. His breathe began to shallow, and his vision became blurred, before everything went black.

When he came to again, he was lying on the table, and he couldn't move. Rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat.

* * *

He didn't know how long it had been in this facility. He didn't know where it was, or why he was here. He had guessed that it was winter now, as one time a doctor had come in with a bit of snow on their shoes. He had still not met anyone who could give him an idea of who he was, or what happened to him.

They had performed different treatments to stimulate his recovery, but he was almost as weak as when it started. He needed assistance moving, but he had gained basic motor control back. He could speak a few words at a time, but they didn't know the extent of it- he didn't talk to any of them.

He had thoughts race through his mind by the second, but he was trapped within his own body. It frustrated him immensely, and if he could've he may have hurt himself in his anger.

With the clack of dress shoes approaching, he quelled his anger and irritation at the sound bouncing off the walls.

"Subject E. Nygma, entry 245. Patient's slow recovery has prompted a visit from higher ups to check progress. This will be the first entry of exposure to others after gaining consciousness."

He stared surprised at the doctor as he was lifted off the table, still stark naked, and walked to an offshot room containing clothes and other items. The doctor pulled a faded green hospital gown over him, and helped him sit into a wheelchair, before pushing him out a side door.

He tried to absorb anything he saw as he exited his white walled cell, but the overload of information overwhelmed him completely and he shut his eyes trying to block it out.

Rolled blind into another room, his eyes shot open at the strangly familiar sound of metal clacking and fast, uneven steps across the room.

Greased raven hair swirled with purple streaks bounced as the well dressed man hobbled toward him, striking blue eyes filled with some lost emotion.

It was him. It was Oswald.

For a fleeting moment, he felt self conscious at being so underdressed in front of such a handsome man. He pushed the feeling away in exchange for shock.

Oswald moved as though he wanted to hug him, but he hesitated and began to move away. He wanted to tell him to stop, but his mouth wouldn't move. He weakly raised his hand to reach for the other man and felt Oswald's smooth, cold hands grasp his.

He stared, eyes dragging over the pale freckled skin of Oswald's face. He had bags beneath his eyes, but his purple eyeshadow distracted from it to the point that they were barely noticable unless you looked.

He wondered if anyone had asked Oswald how he was doing lately, he looked as though he had buried his stresses under each new layer of makeup.

"Ed…"

He was confused. Who was Ed? Was Oswald addressing him? He wanted to ask, but he was too enraptured by the soft melody of his voice.

Even without a voice, Oswald recognized his confusion, and he could see him quickly cover the fear in his expression. For a moment, he thought of how he missed it. He looked so beautiful when he was afraid, his lashes fluttering, accentuating his pale eyes. His soft pink lips twitching as he thought of what to say.

It was wonderful, refreshing even.

Long fingers carefully gripped his shoulders, and striking blue eyes stuck to his own.

"Edward Nygma. That's your name Ed."

His voice shook slightly, slipping through the controlled tone he held. Oswald took in a deep breathe theough his nose and continued.

"My name is-"

"Oswald."

Ed's voice cracked partway, but he didn't care. He gave a weak smile, though his warmth reached Oswald through his eyes. He could feel Oswald's hands shaking on his shoulders as his mouth hung slightly in shock. His pink lips open and chapped.

"You remember me?" Oswald almost whispered, as if he couldn't believe it.

Ed was silent, his lips pursed in thought, before he shook his head. The look on Oswald's face quickly crumpled, and guilt knotted in Ed's stomach.

"But… but you know me?"

Ed nodded, and Oswald sighed pulling away.

"Okay. Okay."

Oswald stood up, and walked over to the doctor standing by the entrance to the room, whispering something to them. As the doctor began to wheel Ed out, he panicked fumbling for the wheels to stop.

"Os… wald. Oswald!" His throat burned as he called for him, twisting his neck in excruciating pain to meet Oswald's eyes. They were sad, so very sad.

"I'll visit you again Ed, I promise!"

As the doctor pushed him out the door, he committed the look of Oswald's expression into his memory. He wouldn't forget him, or his promise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New memories.

~~~~Entering his room, Ed found the doctor had placed him in a new area. It looked almost homely, with a large king size bed in flower print bedding. There were empty shelves pushed against white concrete walls, and a desk displaying only a lamp and a rubix cube.

He sat still in his wheelchair, unsure why he felt that he had been here before.

Rolling to the bed, he pushed himself up with some work and sat heavily onto the mattress. It was warm, and the bedding smelled like home. Whatever home smelled like to him, he wasn't sure, but this was it. He pulled the comforter over him, swaddling himself like a babe and turning on his side to stare into the soft lamp light illuminating the dim room.

Entranced like a moth to a flame, he lay there motionless at the feeling of such peace after his endless electrical torment. He thought of Oswald whispering to the doctor, he must have done this.

He saved him, Oswald saved him.

Burrowing further into the blankets, his greasy hair curled over his closed eyes as he drifted off to his first purposeful sleep in a long time.

 

* * *

 

Waking to the sound of air flowing through the vent in the ceiling, he pushed himself up on his bed still wrapped in his comforter. It smelled softly of lavender and cotton. Scooting to press against the headboard of the bed, he sniffed watching tears drip down his cheeks.

Wiping his eyes with a dry hand, he reached for the rubix cube beside him. Messing with it in his hands, it felt almost therapeutic watching the blurry colors match together. He felt as though it was a second nature to him, and within minutes he had matched all six sides of the cube and placed it back on the desk.

Glancing briefly around the room, he saw only white walls. No windows, no mirrors, nothing. He wished he knew what he looked like now. He couldn't remember what he looked like before, but now his mind was riddled with insecurities.

Was his body too thin? He was unhealthy and weak and it had surely affected his appearance. His hair was greasy, sticking to his forehead in irritating strands that made him want to cut it off.

Worst of all he had only a pale paper gown to cover himself. He ran his hands over his arms, wishing he wore something warmer, perhaps a sweater. If only he had something fancy like the pin striped suit Oswald had worn when he had seen him. Pressing his fingers together he thought of different outfits to suit himself, but none of them satisfied him.

At the opening of his bedroom door, he scrambled in his bedding to look presentable for-

Oh.

A doctor entered the room holding a dark purple box wrapped with a glittering indigo bow on top.

"Patient E. Nygma, Mr. Cobblepot has insisted on you recieving this gift."

Ed took it gently in his hands, playing gently with the silky bow before resting the box in his lap of blankets.

"You will be recieving another visit from Mr. Cobblepot by the end of the week. Until then, we will be continuing with a less physically stimulating treatment now that you have begun to regain motor control."

By the time the door had shut, Ed had already carefully opened the present, pulling out a set of crisply folded clothes.

Dressing himself from his bed, he stood with the assistance of the desk to look down at himself.

He wore a cream button down, accented by comfortable brown slacks and brown loafers. Reaching into the bottom of the box, he pulled dark black rimmed glasses which fit perfectly to his face. In fact, everything he wore fit him exactly, as though he had been measured inch by inch in his sleep. Perplexed, he pulled at the sleeves and slacks to test this theory and found them both in his exact body size. In his scrutiny, he also found small green embroidered question marks sewed into the cuffs.

Though confused at the decoration, he found them quite neat and couldn't help the smile that worked onto his face as he turned a few more times to look once again at his appearance and his previous insecurities faded from his mind.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few days, Ed underwent a plethora of phsycological and intelligence tests with a handful of doctors. They breezed by quickly in his anticipation of another visit from Oswald Cobblepot. He thought of what they may talk about, piling up a hundred questions in his head, before realizing in frustration his lack of communication available.

The doctors seemed to show him more and more there could be no end in sight to his healing, and he still knew nothing of what had caused this to happen to him.

His mobility had increased a bit faster than his other impediments, yet complex thoughts crumbled as they became vocalized. It was like some complicated encoder trapped in his throat depleting his sentence structure as he spoke. More and more he felt trapped within his own head rather than this facility.

As the metal door creaked open from across the room, Ed was stunned by the sight of Oswald striding into the room to his bed. He looked so artistic, sculpted like a piece of ancient greek work. So ethereal, every line on him purposeful, so-

"Beautiful."

Oswald flushed at the unprompted compliment. But Ed would've dared to argue that his appearance alone prompted such a response. With a sigh that had Ed reeling to determine if he had spoken out of turn, Oswald brushed off the outburst.

"Hello, Edward." He started, avoiding Ed's eyes. "It's good to see you again, I'm glad you've been healing accordingly."

At Ed's silence, Oswald awkwardly continued their largely one sided conversation.

"The doctor's have told me you've continued to regain basic motor control, but still lack communication skills."

Ed flushed in embarrassment, this time being the one to avoid eye contact.

"So by advisement, I've come to give you motivation to regain this skill."

The look of confusion did not require a question, so Oswald continued without a pause.

"Yes. Your motivation will be the truth. Any question you have of who you were before your memory loss I will answer for you truthfully."

At first they started with basic questions. Where was he from- a small town in the midwest. What was his favorite breakfast- cranberry muffins. How he hated onions in his takeout. How he had an affection for riddles. How he was too much of a romantic. But as they delved past the surface of his persona, it became harder to articulate his inquiries.

"Memory?" He spoke in a cracking voice. Oswald took only seconds to recognize his meaning, and Ed was still amazed at the familiarity he seemed to recognize in Ed.

"How did you lose your memory? You died, Ed."

He was silent as Oswald placed a cool hand over his own. He wasn't shocked, he wasn't anything. It hadn't processed yet, and he was sure it would, but for now he was nothing.

"How?"

"You killed Lee Thompkins, and she took you with her."

Ed looked frustrated.

"How?"

"You stabbed her." Oswald sighed, before Ed shook his head.

"Why?"

Oswald gave him a look. Not anger or frustration, but almost disappointment. Ed felt himself shrink under that gaze.

"Because you loved her."

Ed was silent. Oswald had told him the determinable truth for every question Ed had given him, and yet this seemed to be somehow unbelievable to Ed.

"No."

Oswald laughed. It was a beautiful, musical sound, and Ed would've cherished it in any other circumstance.

"No? You didn't love her?"

Ed shook his head once again. Oswald's expression grew bitter, but he kept his taunting smile.

"Then perhaps you really were a fool."

Ed was taken aback. Anger pitted in his gut, but he buried it under his confusion. How did Oswald know him well enough to judge his opposition against this statement?

"Who are you?" Ed pushed out weakly, his throat burning.

Oswald looked away, a worn expression bleeding through his mask. As he turned to exit the room he stopped at the door, pushing his weight onto the black umbrella in his hand.

"Only a memory. A stepping stone, in another sense, I suppose." His tone was bitter as he stared toward the floor.

He left the room with a promise of return, and Ed twisted his hands mulling over his new memory to ponder.


End file.
